He shoves his hands into his pockets—adjusting himself surreptitiously, probably.He glances at me over his shoulder."Morgan…"
I climb the three stairs up and stab the button to open the door for him."Just…go."
He nods without a word and ducks under the opening door.
I jog after him as he climbs into his truck."Wait!"He pauses with one leg hanging out of the cab, watching me approach."I don't have your number."
He grins as he takes my phone and enters his name and number and then calls himself from my phone."This mean I can text you?"
Blush, blush, blush like a schoolgirl with her first crush."Yeah," I whisper."I wouldn't hate that."I back away."See you later.Thanks again for the rescue."
"And thank you for the stew.It was delicious."
"Maybe I can try your chili next time you make it."
"I'm sure that could be arranged."He starts his truck but leaves his door open…seeing as I'm standing in the way and all.
Funny how I don't want him to leave.
I force myself away from him, push his door closed.Back up into the garage, waving as he reverses, watching his taillights depart.
Back in the kitchen, I find Mal ladling herself another bowl.I prepare myself mentally for whatever she's about to say—likely something I won't have any good answers for.
"So that was a whole moment, huh?"She smirks at me over her spoon.
"Dunno what you're talking about," I tell her.
"Okay," she says, a little too agreeably.
"Mal, if you've got something to say, say it."
She shrugs."I did.I like Coach Austin."
"He’s a likable guy.I'm pretty sure everyone in Tomlin Falls likes him."I toss our empty beer bottles into the recycling bin just outside the door to the garage.
She grins at me."Not what I meant, but okay."
"Mal."
She indicates the garage."You were totally making out with him in there, weren't you?"
“Nope.”Pretty sure my scarlet cheeks give away the lie.
Mal snorts."Mom, you're a terrible liar.Youcantalk to me, you know."
"Mom," I say, pointing to myself."Child," I say, pointing to her.
She rolls her eyes again."Okay, sure, but here's another take on that."She points at me."Adult."She points at herself."Adult."
"You're not eighteen for another three months, sweetheart," I point out.
"Sure, but when we're discussing maturity, does three months really matter?I'm your daughter, yeah, but I like to think we're also friends, right?Like, I know I can talk to you about anything, and I do.But why is that a one-way street?Why can'tyoutalk tomeabout things?"
"’Cause that's not how it works," I say, rummaging in a cabinet for something to put the leftovers into.
"Says who?"
She's got me there, I guess."Mal, I…"
